Gunpowder and Lead
by GarryxMrChairFan
Summary: Their relationship was explosive, similar to fire and gasoline, and it was only a matter of time before the fuel ran out. Francis didn't think Arthur was made of such strong stuff to leave him. He should've known better. FrUK, Human!AU, OOC. I don't even know, guys.


_**Gunpowder and Lead**_

~GarryxMrChairFan :3

**Customary Disclaimer: **Any and all recognizable _Hetalia _characters © Himaruya Hidekaz. _  
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**A/N: **This is more "anti-FrUK" than anything, though I think no ill towards Francis despite his characterization for this story. Inspired by _Gunpowder and Lead _by Miranda Lambert.

_Warnings: _brief mentions of abuse, a situation of almost-rape, implied character death if you see it that way

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The breeze was cool, a simple and gentle caress against his face that tousled his choppily cut blond tresses as he gazed evenly down the dirt drive leading to the house. Green eyes lazily watched the sky, light grey-blue storm clouds beginning to swirl and the smell of inevitable rain filling his nose as he inhaled, mixed with the pungent odor of the cigarette hanging between his lips.

His head rested against the wooden post of the porch, one arm across his chest and holding the other which rested against the top of the barrel of the twelve-gauge resting on his leg. He lightly traced the opening, his finger gliding smoothly along the rim of the opening as he listened to the quiet wind, the dulled noises of nature, and for the familiar low hum of the engine he was anticipating. It had been half an hour already.

Not long now.

As he reached up to remove the cigarette, exhaling a sharp plume of nicotine-filled smoke, bright headlights appeared at the end of the drive, and his green irises flashed as they settled on him. He remained stoic as he was momentarily blinded, narrowing his eyes as the dark blue SUV came to a stop and the lights cut off with the engine, the driver's door opening and being closed with a forceful slam as the occupant turned towards him.

Blond hair normally so well-managed hung around a fair face, secured loosely with a cerulean ribbon and flopped nonchalantly over his left shoulder. Thin lips he knew by heart and feel were set in an even thinner line, and sea blue eyes glared up at him with danger as their owner walked towards him, mal intent in every step.

"You didn't honestly think that would work, did you?"

"It did for a while, didn't it?" His voice was cool, emotionless. His finger continued around the barrel. "Any time away from you is a blessing."

A haughty laugh fell from the man's lips, a sneer creeping onto his face. "You wound me, _mon amour._"

The light purple bruise beneath his green eye throbbed with a phantom pain. "I hope to have the chance."

The blond stopped before him at the bottom of the steps leading to the veranda, his hands sliding into the pockets of his tan trousers, adopting a relaxed stance. "You do not really wish that, though," he commented lightly, looking up with a smirk. "You love me too much, Arthur."

Arthur scoffed internally, leering at the man before him. "Maybe once upon a time, Francis," he replied, taking another drag from his cigarette before tossing it away. "The coin has flipped."

"Be that as it may," Francis conceded, eyeing the shotgun by his lover's leg. Arthur watched as a moment of apprehension flashed through blue eyes, "you do not have the will to do me harm."

"Don't I?" Arthur pulled the gun from the ground, holding it delicately in his hands, looking it over casually. "It seems as easy as pulling a trigger."

"You do not want to, though." Francis was up the few stairs, shoving him back into the front door.

Arthur yelped in surprise, the gun falling to the wooden porch with a clatter as his hands were pinned above his head, hardened blue eyes narrowed and staring into his. He struggled to pull his arms free, but it wasn't effective; it never had been, as even the simplest brush of skin-on-skin contact between him and the Frenchman had always left his knees weak and his head light.

They hadn't been together for as long as they had because of their personalities, that was for sure. It had been purely physical between them at the start, after all: just ways to waste time and pass the days. It was fire and gasoline, the explosive chemistry and lustful passion that kept them coming together for more until it was practically routine. Eventually, they'd said to hell with the warnings of their friends and made it official, despite hearing that it wouldn't last, that there wasn't anything deeper to hold them together.

For a while, Arthur merely scoffed at them, called them jealous that they didn't have the passion that he shared with Francis. He may have been French, but Arthur liked the lust, the wildfire feeling he felt with him, the tingling sensation that covered his skin and the dizziness that consumed his thoughts from the light caresses of sensitive fingers and the intoxicating scent that was Francis. With the way the Frenchman was always on about _l'amour _and how it conquered all, he had believed what they had was love.

Until the first time Francis hit him.

Granted, Francis looked just as shocked as he had been, immediately apologizing and caring for him afterwards. But then it happened again, and yet again. They started arguing even more than usual and spent less time feeding the dying fire of passion between them. Shouting matches that could be heard across town filled their country home, and beatings and bruises that spoke of war were noticed beneath concealer and long sleeves. Arthur had never worn so much makeup in his life, had never throbbed and ached quite like he did after one of the Frenchman's rages.

And yet they stayed together. They were addicted to one another, like moths to a flame, each the other's preferred liquor that was the only way to numb the pain as it cultivated more. It was a dangerous relationship, one built on lust and carnal desire. But the lust had run out and the desire had been slated for Arthur, and he could now see exactly what it was that his friends and family had warned him of:

Francis was not good for him, and it could only end badly.

Arthur continued to struggle as Francis pressed soft kisses beneath his jaw, along his neck right under his ear. Small whimpers escaped along with frustrated tears, and he had to fight the growing urge to give into the pleasure he was so familiar with. He gasped involuntarily when the Frenchman sucked on the skin where his jaw met his neck, that tender spot that turned his knees to jelly and had him collapsing into the taller blond.

"See?" Francis murmured into the soft skin, caressing Arthur's neck with his lips. He followed the Briton to the hard wooden porch, laying him out as he continued his ministrations and felt the small body arching into him; Arthur could never resist. He looked up, gently pulling Arthur's face to his, leaning up to place a light kiss on the edge of lips he knew well. "You do not have it in you to hurt me; you want me too much."

Arthur was kicking himself on the inside. No matter how much he told himself that everyone else had been right, how this wasn't healthy, that this was dangerous, he just couldn't fight it. The lust of his emotions may have left and the carnal desire he felt for Francis in his heart may have been satiated, but that didn't mean his physical body knew that. He was still just as sensitive as he had first been, still just as wanting for those soft touches and gingerly whispered words, the hot kisses and eventual release that he knew Francis could give him.

He tried, though. No one could ever accuse Arthur of giving in without a fight. "L-Let me go!" he gasped, attempting desperately not to moan as he subconsciously fought to refrain his lower half from grinding up. "Get off of me! I don't want this! I don't want _you_!"

Francis simply chuckled and caressed his face. "You say that, yet your body says differently. I'm torn as to which I should actually listen to."

"Listen to _me!_" Arthur choked on a groan as Francis straddled him. "Don't do this to me! I'm done with this –" He choked again as a high whine fell from his lips, a mewl that earned him an amused look.

"Are you, _mon amour?_" Francis ran his hands along Arthur's sides, sliding them under the sweater complimentarily hugging Arthur tightly and tugging it off, leaving the smaller male in the collared shirt under it. He slowly began undoing the buttons, leaving sharp nips to the pale chest as it was exposed. Francis managed to tug it down to the Briton's arms as the man squirmed beneath him, consequently rubbing deliciously against his hardened erection. "If so, I would have expected a better fight from you."

Arthur's eyes flashed dangerously when Francis began undoing his belt, and he gathered what wits he had long enough to kick at the Frenchman. He successfully threw Francis back a bit, the forceful push unexpected and therefore letting Arthur scramble up as much as he could. "If you want a fight, I'll give you a bloody fight!" he seethed, pulling his shirt back up to his shoulders.

Francis sneered, lunging for Arthur as he backed away and pinning him to the ground once again, knocking the shotgun farther away. Arthur yelped and struggled, watching uneasy blue eyes gaze at him and trying to find an opening to kick the Frenchman again. He began to panic when Francis forced him to flip over, securing his arms behind his back and pressing against him from behind.

"Come on, _mon amour,_" Francis breathed in his ear, causing a shiver to run down his spine that was more pleasurably tingly than he would've liked. "Is that all you've got?" Arthur felt Francis' free hand slide to his front, expertly undoing his belt and pulling it loose enough to open the button on his jeans.

"Stop!" he cried weakly, his resolve against the Frenchman wavering as his member was stroked and palmed through his pants. He cursed Francis in his mind as he panted heavily, damning him for knowing just what to do to turn him into a wanton mess. "Get _off_ of me, you frog!"

Francis ignored the jab, concentrating on the hardening member in his hand instead, massaging it thoroughly as it began straining against the restricting fabric of Arthur's boxers. Francis smirked when he felt a dampness spreading beneath his fingers, feeling victorious. "You're going to have to try harder than that, _mon amour. _I'm beginning to think you're not quite as opposed to this as you want me to believe."

Arthur shivered as he was stroked, his breathing becoming harder and heavier as his wriggling became weaker and weaker beneath Francis. Tears filled his eyes, the feeling of self-loathing crashing around him. He couldn't believe he was giving in so easily to the man. He was pathetic.

Turning his head so he could gasp for cleaner air, the smell of rain becoming stronger as he inhaled deeply, his green eyes caught sight of the twelve-gauge lying three feet away, the dark metal glinting dully in the storm cloud-covered sunlight. With his hands still caught behind his back and Francis pressing tender kisses along his shoulder blades – his shirt having been pulled to pool around his elbows – he felt helplessness engulf him. He may have the upper hand in verbal arguments most days, but the Frenchman held his own in intimate physical contact. He couldn't win this.

Francis felt the Englishman under him begin to settle, almost seeming to deflate as if he had thought of something inevitable. "Don't worry, _mon cher,"_ he cooed soothingly, trailing a hand down Arthur's spine. "You know I can make you feel _exquisite_." His hand slid under the waistband of the Brit's jeans and pants at the same time.

Something snapped in Arthur as he felt Francis removing his pants slowly, the familiar feel of slender fingers teasing him sending a wave of pure anger-fueled adrenaline mixed with panic through his blood.

"NO!" he screamed, summoning nonexistent strength and all the willpower he possessed, thrashing about and managing to loosen the Frenchman's hold on him, though only slightly. "LET ME GO!"

"Why?" Francis growled back, struggling to keep the Englishman under him where he still had the upper hand. "All I've ever done is love you, Arthur! Why are you doing this to us?!"

"Because it's not love!" Arthur was seriously about to pass out from his struggle. He could barely feel his arms anymore, and he was tangled in his loose-hanging jeans. "You don't care about me at all! All I've ever been is a convenient fuck!" His adrenaline was waning, and he was in full tears. "Let me go, Francis! I don't want this anymore! LET. ME. GO!"

Francis yelled incoherently in anger, using the little bit of strength he hadn't spent already to force Arthur back down, practically laying on top of him. He glanced to the side and saw a flash of black, his blue eyes warily watching it from his peripheral. Oh, yes. Arthur had threatened to shoot him, hadn't he? Well, that was nothing new. He felt the Brit wriggle again and groaned; he was still hard and very turned on, and Arthur didn't want him anymore? Fuck him. "NO. I'm afraid that's not how this works," he growled lowly. "I want you. You're mine. End of story."

"Fuck you," Arthur seethed.

"With pleasure," Francis sneered, reaching back into Arthur's pants. "I'll gladly fuck you like the little bitch you are. Let me hear your pretty scream, _oui?_"

"NO! LET ME GO!"

Francis forced a harsh laugh. "You really are a little girl, aren't you, Arthur?"

The blow to Arthur's masculinity sent him over the edge. Calling him a bitch was something he could handle; it was a gross understatement, really. But he'd had quite enough of being called feminine and girly, regardless of his more delicate build and slightly whiny mannerisms when he was upset. Plus he was practically on the verge of being raped; his mental state was pretty much shot.

With one last idea, Arthur threw his head back against the Frenchman's, surprising the taller man with his action and forcing him back and off of him. Francis yelped loudly, falling off of Arthur and allowing him to scramble up and away. In his panicked mind, he reached for the shotgun, cradling it to his chest as he turned back to Francis.

"Well, you know what they say, right?" he asked hysterically, standing and towering over Francis unsteadily. Francis sat up with a groan, holding his nose and internally wincing at the warm liquid he could feel on his fingers.

"You know the stuff little girls are made of?" The Frenchman looked up at Arthur's question, straight into the barrel of the shotgun. His blue eyes flickered up farther, starting with fear into wild emerald irises, shining with an intense calm despite his hysteria. "Gunpowder and lead."

Thunder rolled with a grand clap through the air, drowning out the harsh pop of a twelve-gauge sounding shortly at a homely country house nestled at the end of a long dirt drive. The grey-blue clouds of the afternoon swirled with a minutely greater speed as the wind picked up, trees swaying with gentle bows back and forth and the grass rippling like a sea of green.

Rain began falling, and it had never felt so clean.

_END_

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**_Reviews are always welcomed and appreciated! Leave your thoughts: good, bad and everything in between. _**

**_Much love. :3  
~GarryxMrChairFan_**


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